The airliner quickly gained altitude. It reached the edge of the Everglades and banked over a patchwork of water-filled, limestone quarries.
Between two of the quarries, a dozen men in jumpsuits looked up at the drone from the Cancun-bound flight. Its moonlit contrail disappeared in the clouds. The sound faded to crickets.
Back to work.
It was an old barn of a warehouse. Sunbaked, remote, corrugated aluminum. Used to be an airplane hangar with two huge doors that slid open on rusty tracks. The doors had a single row of windows, long since spray- painted black.
Three white vans sat in the back of the building. Magnetic catering signs suggested they knew what they were doing with wedding cakes. Men unloaded wooden crates under fluorescent lights. Every tenth one went to a table for inspection.
Crowbars, sawdust.
Two large hands pulled out an SKS assault rifle, the cheap Chinese knockoff of the Russian Kalashnikov. The man shouldered the weapon, checking sight lines and placing his ear close as he dry-fired the trigger. Then back in the box. A slight nod. Jumpsuits replaced the lid and hammered flat-head nails.
The man reached for the next crate. He stood six three, with one of those massive stomachs that started just below the neck and involved the chest. It was covered by a custom, five-XL Tommy Bahama tropical shirt, which hung loose at his waist like a tarp covering a vintage Volkswagen. An unseen wrestling-style belt buckle said V ICTOR in sparkling diamonds. Light olive skin, not quite the local Latin, maybe Mediterranean. He was thinking again of quitting the Hair Club.
The warehouse doors creaked open. Headlights. Another van.
A jumpsuit: “Mr. Evangelista, here comes the rest of the shipment.”
Victor set the rifle down and rubbed his palms. “The good stuff.”
This time, all crates went to the table. Everyone gathered round.
Out came a much larger weapon that pressed down on the shoulder of the tropical shirt. A bulbous, pointed projectile perched on the end of the muzzle.
The men finished their count from the crates. Forty-eight factory-fresh RPGs diverted from an army base in the Carolinas.
Victor slapped the side of the last box. “Move it out!”
The only other person in the warehouse not wearing a jumpsuit was a young man wearing gold chains and a single stud earring. He compensated for his uncommonly short stature with tight slacks, wispy mustache, silk nightclub shirts unbuttoned to the navel, and tall hats.
Victor turned toward the young man. “Scooter, are you standing on your tiptoes again?”
“No.” He slowly eased down onto his heels.
“Just don’t touch anything,” said Victor. “It’s like I can’t take my eyes off you.”
He took his eyes off him.
When he looked back: “Scooter! That’s not a toy! Put it down this instant!”
“Shut up, old man.” Scooter rested the weapon on his own shoulder. “I’ve handled these a thousand times.”
“Don’t touch that switch!” Victor lunged. “It’s armed!”
Woooooosh.
Luckily, the rocket-propelled grenade threaded through the slit in the warehouse doors. Unluckily, the gravel parking lot was a target-rich environment.
Boom.
A chassis blew ten feet in the air and crashed back down. Tires sailed like discus.
“You idiot!” Victor snatched the weapon. The front hood of a Ferrari clanged down onto the warehouse roof. “That was my car!”
Scooter nonchalantly strolled away. “My uncle will buy you a new one.”
“You’re damn right,” yelled Victor.
One of the jumpsuits came over. “Shouldn’t we get the hell out of here? That was loud. And a big fireball.”
Evangelista shook his head. “It’s Miami. People don’t even notice anymore.”
The jumpsuit looked toward the departing Scooter. “Why do you let that pussy come along?”
“Politics,” said Victor. “It’s the business we’re in.”
The Next Afternoon
A scorched tropical motel with an empty signpost sat behind the demolished ruins of the Orange Bowl. An old chain-link fence that surrounded the swimming pool had been pushed down in places, but the pool was drained and filled with broken bottles. The office showed hints of a recent altercation that involved shovels and fire. When it rained, the guests subconsciously thought of childhood, but not theirs.
Tourists didn’t stay at the motel, although it was quiet, except when junkies knocked on random doors with a range of requests representing the width of
the human condition. In the swimming pool’s deep end was a ripped-in-half poster of a sailboat crew that said TEAMWORK.
A knock on a door.
Serge answered. “Hello, junkie!”
The man swayed off balance. “Have any yarn? Blue?”
“No, but here are some postcards.”
The door closed.
A minute later:
Knock, knock, knock…
“Another junkie?” asked Coleman.
“Probably the deliveryman.” Serge opened the door and his wallet. “Right on time. Just leave the tank there. And here’s a little extra for your trouble.”
The deliveryman hesitated at the sight of Serge’s cape. Then took the money and left quickly.
“What now?” asked Coleman.
Serge headed out the door. “Welcome our guest.”
A key went into the trunk of a Plymouth Road Runner.
The hood popped.
Blinding sunlight.
Serge waved his gun. “Rise and shine!”
A bruised carjacker shielded his eyes with one hand and raised the other in submission. “Don’t shoot!”
“And ruin all my fun?”
Serge marched him toward the motel.
“I swear I’ll never rob anyone again!”
A poke in the back with the gun barrel. “I know you won’t.”
The captive stopped just inside the motel room. “What’s the metal tank for?”
“Cow jism.” Serge grabbed a mug of cold coffee off the dresser and downed it. “Actually bull jism. Cows are chicks, I think. Who cares? It’s a cryogenic tank, but there’s no bull spooge in there either. So I put in some of my own, because when do you ever really get the chance? I’m just that kind of cat. It’s my new hobby. The tank, not the other. Hobbies are important. And you’re about to become the star in my latest episode of World’s Most Dangerous Hobbies!”
“You’re insane… Ow!” The man grabbed his shoulder. “What the hell?”
Serge pulled back the syringe. “Just a prick for a prick.”
“What was in that?… Whoa…” He grabbed for the bed.
“Better sit down,” said Serge. “It gets on top of you pretty fast.”
Moments later: The hostage lay stretched out across the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Still breathing.
Moments after that:
“Far enough,” said Serge. “Now roll him back the other way.”
“He’s heavy.”
